


unknown constant (of liminality)

by moltenglass



Category: My Own Private Idaho (1991)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Introspection, M/M, Mike-Centric, Post-Canon Fix-It, weird pacing but eh lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:09:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29243370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moltenglass/pseuds/moltenglass
Summary: And so again, in the middle of his road that resembles a fucked up face, he is twitching into to the inviting unknown of the abyss at the back of his burned-out mind. The duffel bag under him is stiff. The wind settles. Before he's completely gone, Mike thinks if this road is his, then it might one day lead him home.
Relationships: Scott Favor & Mike Waters, Scott Favor/Mike Waters
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	unknown constant (of liminality)

Lucid or dreaming, Mike is exhausted. All he feels is the primordial ache down to his very bones. The kind that's been with him as long as he can remember. It follows him to dates in lavish mansions with never-ending floors and dingy hotel rooms drenched in dust. It latches onto him the mornings after, ever-present, hazily droning in the back of his senses. It finds its way to Mike’s fever dreams that are muted in white and blue. A woman's slender fingers comb through his hair with ghostly caresses over his forehead, her voice almost a whisper lost in the breeze. A dream within a dream, he slumbers in the hands of his mother. In the distance, birdsong cuts through the gentle rustling of leaves.

All is well. And none of it real.

Mike knows how this goes. The ache gnaws at his chest some more, like it's looking for a permanent home.

Sometimes it feels like he is nonexistent. He's the shaky air encircling a flickering flame. A trail of an airplane flying over Portland. A hushed moan into the cold mattress. Sometimes the joke of existence is especially cruel and Mike feels as if caged inside a foreign body he has no right to, as it exists not to home him, but to be taken apart by strangers. He feels like he's restlessly hovering over it from time to time. Drifting in and out of dreamstates, Mike is only dimly aware of the line between real and fake. The heavy blanket of sleep seems to overpower him increasingly often these days. Even when he manages to score some blow, still every comedown in cold sweat is more crushing than the last time. And so again, in the middle of his road that resembles a fucked up face, he is twitching into to the inviting unknown of the abyss at the back of his burned-out mind. The duffel bag under him is stiff. The wind settles. Before he's completely gone, Mike thinks if this road is his, then it might one day lead him home. One of these days.

Sleep feels short and dreamless for once, leaving him especially disoriented. The worst part about his brain, Mike thinks, is how fucked up it's relationship with time is. After 21 years of this he thought he'd get used to waking up oblivious to how many hours had gone by, but the sinking feeling after every attack doesn't seem to ease away. Half awake, he keeps his eyes closed for a moment. "There's no reason to know the time, for we are timeless." Scott's playful tone echoes in a lonely chamber or Mike’s mind where they appear in one of the rooms of their little hotel, and the words aren’t even for him, but Mike, unable to imagine Scott’s “we” without himself, nose full of candy and heart in flames, believes him. After all, this is what Scott is best at - making believe. Mike remembers the light on Scott that day, the mischievous glint in his eyes as he suddenly cuts the distance between them. Says something about wanting to play a joke he can't pull off alone. Mike steals a glance at Scott's lips and hopes to God he didn't notice. Or did.

Mike longs for the day when his semiconscious mind won't drift to Scott like blind instinct.

He tries to blink away the remainder of sleep from his eyes and finds himself in the passenger seat of an old car he can't recall getting into. His brow bone is pressed firmly against the cool glass of the window and next to him the driver's seat is empty. Anxiety swirls in his stomach as he looks outside the window to a wholly unfamiliar landscape of a highway road with a lone diner on it's side. A few streetlights from a small town nearby are melting on the horizon of Mike's vision, still blurry from sleep. As he shifts in his seat to hug his knees, he discovers an added bonus to the confusion: his shoes are gone.

Somebody saw him lying on the cold asphalt and picked him up only to disappear when he wakes up. Mike stares at his strangely shoeless feet. Life's funny.

The door on the passenger's side opens in a loud clank and Mike jolts up.

"You're awake." A smile in a voice. Then, a face intricately familiar. Everything swims in slow motion.

Mike blinks like a deer caught in headlights.

This isn't right. It can't be.

Not him. _Not here._

Mike can only stare wordlessly. He's overcome by a particularly odd feeling, like when you see something painstakingly out of place. Having spent an unjust amount of hours involuntarily asleep, Mike has learned to embrace the poetic absurdity inherent to his dreamspace. He knows by heart what it looks like, how it feels like, who might pay him a visit and who keeps constantly leaving. Lucidity is often an empty promise. Colors are cold and drowned in heavy blur, like that one distant morning in Italy, air filled with luminous fog, thoughts filled with everything he cannot have. Dreams have become Mike's very own kaleidoscope of misfortune.

Yet here's Scott Favor, sitting next to him, on what seems like the edge of the world. Longer hair falling messily over his dark eyes. Stubble gracing his tense jawline. Sundown coloring his face in warm shades of orange and violet. He's wearing his street clot - a raggedy leather jacket over a white t-shirt paired with distressed jeans and combat boots. A jarring contrast from the funeral, where he was clean-shaven and all suited up. Shapeshifting is Scott's favorite hobby.

Mike feels dizzy. Almost dissociative. Maybe this dream is one of the better ones. Beautiful and vivid and impossible. Or maybe his lifeless body is somewhere on that never-ending road and the heavens have decided that Scott's car is his purgatory.

Scott is looking at him intently, with something indiscernible behind his eyes. Half smile, half cautions observation. Like he's trying to solve Mike, taking him apart and putting him back together. An expression he isn't sure he's ever seen on Scott's face before. The familiar stuttery twitch makes its way through his fingers, mind overwhelmed and set to escape at any moment. He holds out, knees against his chest, knuckles white from gripping on the faded fabric of his jeans as some kind of an anchor.

"Scott, what-" The name tastes bitter between his teeth. "What are you doing here?"

Mike looks away as if it hurts to look directly at Scott, and resumes to his hand habits, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket. The heat of Scott's gaze on the side of his face doesn't go away though.

"Buying you a cheeseburger, Mike." His voice is familiarly warm. "You're probably hungry."

Scott gives him one of his unreadable smiles and throws a paper bag on the dashboard so matter-of-factly, it's almost comical. Like they do this every day. They drive down the desert highways of Idaho looking for adventure, and get takeaway from little roadside diners. They were born for this. Like Scott Favor doesn't belong in shimmering halls full of fake laughter and expensive alcohol. Like Mike Waters doesn't have a solid chance of winding up in an empty alleyway, shuddering with a violent cocktail of drugs up his veins. Like the world is a toy no one has ever played with and the two of them have it all to themselves. Scott was always so good at this game of pretend. And now he's gotten better.

Mike doesn't seem to find the words to retort though. Lets out a weary sigh and turns his gaze to the road in front of him, head leaning idly on his seat. He can't recall his last proper meal and so he gives in, even though a part of him wants to scream at Scott until his throat is hoarse, wants to get out of the car and never have to look him in the eye again. He doesn’t, though. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he bites on the burger that doesn't look that bad, actually. 

Scott seems to sense his frustration and speaks again.

"Looked for you everywhere I thought you could be," The playful tone to his voice is now gone. "You really shouldn't fall asleep on the road, Mikey." The pet name and the insinuation that he chooses where to land when sleep finds him earns a drowsy chuckle from Mike, but he's unsure what emotion he's trying to express with it. He can hear the blood rushing to his head.

"How's Carmella?", he asks, licking drops of ketchup off his fingers, trying to sound conversational, but it comes out all wrong and he hates the spite in his voice.

"She's fine, at least I hope she is." Scott replies quietly, eyebrows furrowing a little above his downcast gaze. "She's back in Italy."

Mike remembers her shaky words on that distant morning, the steam coming out of her mouth, the dew-like glimmer in her eyes. She sounds so dazed and overwhelmed by her own feelings, unknowingly mirroring Mike in more ways than he could admit to himself. Falling for Scott isn't gradual, it's more akin to a lethal free-fall. He remembers the distinct sound of their bed creaking above him, how he covers his eyes with his arm and begs this once for the black hole of slumber to catch up to him as quick as possible, but it doesn't.

A thousand and one things cross Mike's mind, but all he can muster for now is a fragile "Oh."

"Some things just aren't meant to be."

Mike averts his sore eyes from the road back to Scott, who's brushing his thumb near his cupid's bow, gaze unfocused and distant as if trying to piece a torn-up picture together in his head. Reminds Mike of catching his gaze during Bob's funeral. At that moment he remembers a clear thought emerging from the chaos inside his head - that this is the last time Scott Favor will look in his direction. He's fixated and wide awake, taking in every minute detail of the scene. The brisk air on his face, the utter madness inside and out, the boy's untamed hollering. Scott's leave-taking. What a strange feeling.

But here we are.

The stillness in the air is almost palpable, unbroken by either passenger. Heavy with all that is unsaid and unheard. Mike looks out the window to the landscape engulfed in twilight, streetlights that flicker into existence and the clouds that promise rain. Scott puts the key in the ignition and turns.

"Where are we headed?" Mike asks, voice still hoarse from sleep, swaying with the car's movement.

"It's your call, Mike. We could go look for your mom, or I could drop you off at your brother's, if you want."

Mike thinks for a moment, only to realize he doesn’t care much for any option. He’s too emotionally drained to be making a decision, too overwhelmed by whatever is it is that’s happening right now in the whirlwind of his life. Right here, in the middle of it, is perfectly fine for now. He wants to understand Scott, understand what it is that brought him back to the dusty roads of Idaho. Mike closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, catching a hint of Scott's cologne that smells like the ocean. He's never been close to one to know how it would smell like, but he vaguely remembers a john feverishly asking him if he likes it on him. He does, on Scott.

"Don't care," he whispers, slowly aware of how close he is to slipping into his personal void. His hands are trembling. "Scott, I-", he stammers and a soft inhale follows.

"Let's get you to a bed then." Scott's voice is the last thing Mike hears and he's out.

Sleep is inexplicably quick and dreamless again.

Mike wakes under a soft blanket, to the faint humming of a TV. For a moment he wonders if he blacked out in the middle of a date again, although he can't remember getting into bed with anyone in the first place. Memories are jumbled in his mind like a tangled ball of yarn, but he doubtlessly knows he saw Scott, be it in a dream or not.

Peeking his head from under the blanket, Mike looks around the room. It's small, dimly lit by the grey-blue glow coming from the TV in front of the queen-sized bed he's in. It's dark outside, the rain is incessantly drumming its monotonous tune on the window. There's not much in it but the space is cozy in small-town budget inn kinda way. Mike is grateful he's not under a flimsy roof of some roadside rest stop right now. Waking up alone and not knowing where you are for the second time in one day is pretty weird though.

While scanning the room Mike notices Scott's leather jacket on the edge of the bed. So, unless his dreams started to come in several episodes, he didn't dream up the car ride. He sits up, leaning on the pillow, and the cold air instantly prickles at his skin, making him realize that he's in his t-shirt and sweatpants that are a little too big on him. His hair is a little damp. And clean, as he runs his fingers through it. He can't remember showering, but he can remember that one gig when Scott bathed him with a john's lustful eyes on them the whole time. Mike's mind threatening to go blank at every searchingly eager touch of skin. Scott is so close and not close enough, lips parted, eyes glistening with something feral and ruinous. It all has to be a performance to him, and Mike makes a mental note to tell Scott that he's one hell of an actor, but he doesn't.

With all that happened between then and now, Mike is unsure how to categorize this gesture of Scott bathing him. Buying him food. Picking up his unconscious body off a highway. Not that he could easily put a label on whatever it is that they had, but obscurity in any sense is mentally exhausting, even more so when it seems to be woven into the very fabric of Mike's complicated existence.

The soft creak of a door brings him back into his own body, sealing the disconnect. Scott appears from the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. His scattered gaze slowly comes to a soft halt on Mike's face as he rests the towel on his shoulders.

"Hey," Scott's voice is quiet yet distinct, and the side of his face is illuminated in the blue light. He pick up his jacket, tosses it on a nearby chair and sits on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"I don't know." Mike replies, because he really doesn't. Awake, maybe. _Present._ One of the things Scott and cocaine have in common is that both never fail to sober him up from a sleepy daze. The other thing is that the next dose is never promised, and so Mike allows himself to stare, taking in every delicate shift in Scott's restless movements, every gleaming angle of his gentle features in the fleeting light of the room, every single sigh and whisper. Scott breaks the eye contact, glancing around the bare walls like he's looking for either a sign or a distraction. The world seems to fade around the edges of his silhouette, as it always does. Like he's the only thing that's real and tangible.

 _I love you_ , he would’ve whispered in another life. In another life he’d says it with his breath kissing the crook of Scott’s neck. In this one he just observes the dying light scattered around him.

Scott lets out a shaky sigh. "Yeah, this is.. hard."

"Doesn't have to be," Mike retorts sullenly. "Thanks for not letting me get run over. If you're waiting for your cue to leave, this is it." The words feel like the the toughest pill stuck in his throat, but one that needs to be swallowed down sooner rather than later, because everything in his life seems to present itself as a diabolical countdown, and so he instinctively braces for impact every single waking second. Through it all, he manages to catch the faintest wince on Scott's shadowed profile.

"Not waiting on anything anymore, Mike." Scott's tone is numb and detached as he throws away the towel around his neck, and when his head hangs low the ache in Mike's veins pulsates with a newfound, terrible intensity. Scott takes a deep breath and speaks again.

"I thought I had all the answers, knew what I wanted and how to get it and in the process I ended up hurting the one person who gave a shit about me." The words escape his mouth in a flurry of relief, like he had held them in his rib cage for far too long. He gulps thickly and clasps his hands together. "You didn't care what I was worth, just like I didn't. Everybody saw the heir apparent, cash cow Scott Favor, but you- you saw me, and that comforted and terrified me at the same time. Leaving you was just a poor attempt at running from myself, 'cause I'm such a damn coward." A pained chuckle falls from Scott's lips as Mike's body is still, but his mind is reeling. The brunet locks his gaze on him, eyes tight and glossy.

"I’m not asking for you to forgive me, and you probably don't care, but just know that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Mike."

They share a long and wordless look and even though Mike has been agonizingly awake through countless displays of what is commonly referred to as intimacy, this mutual gaze with the usually poised and smug boy now coming undone right across from him is the single most intimate exchange Mike has ever experienced. Now that he has had a good look at him, he notices the dark circles under Scott’s eyes, how shaken he looks, how dazed. Mike hates that he wants to reach out and touch him, just this once. Just this once to be in control and brave and selfish. Instead, he hugs his own knees, resting his head upon them in his comfort position, shuts his eyes and sways gently to soothe the exploding star of a heart that beats away in his chest.

"Scott, you're- you're running away again." Mike always did envy how Scott could afford to just run from everything. His lifestyle, his lovers, himself. And he made a habit out of it, too.

“Yeah.” Scott faintly sighs after a pause that hangs in the air a little longer than it should’ve. “But this time I think I’ve found something worth running for.”

Mike opens his eyes. He wonders if this is one of Scott's usual guileful schemes to prove, mainly to himself, that he is worthy of love. He did comfortably get away with it once, after all. Now though, the air about him seems different. Maybe it's the tremble in the boy's voice or the way he looks like he aged a lifetime during te two months of radio silence, but something presses Mike on to allow himself the luxury of hope. He hates how he immediately lets it seep into his bloodstream like pure coke. This will probably hurt later, but beggars can't be choosers, Mike knows.

"I found a place where we can get you help for your condition. I have some money, so that won't be a problem for now." Scott speaks again, his voice now steady, more akin to the confident Scott of Mike's memories, the Scott that has the solution for everything. A pale half-smile blooms on Mike's lips at the familiar tone, a smile that Scott won’t catch.

"What am I supposed to say to you now?" It's a question more for himself than Scott.

"Nothing. Just let me do this for you, Mikey. I want to make things right this time." Scott leans forward, his hand almost gripping at the blanket, like he wants to shuffle closer to Mike on the bed, but decides not to. "Please."

The TV plays grainy scenes of some diver jumping into the ocean from the highest cliff Mike has ever seen, even on TV. Scott's words ring in his ears in a tremulous oscillation as the man hits the water. Mike hopes he floats.

Patting on the ruffled blanket next to where he’s laid, all he musters is “Come here. Let’s just go to sleep”, fully aware that it's a non-answer, and heaven knows both of them are stupidly good at those. But something softens in the glistening black of Scott's gaze, and Mike knows that he understands. He watches Scott let out a an apologetic chuckle to himself before turning the TV off and Mike can only wonder if he too sees the campfire in his mind's eye. Scott walks over to the other side of the bed and hesitates.

"You sure you want me to.. I could just sleep in the armchair if you-"

"No, it's okay." Mike says, shifting onto his right side so he's now facing Scott, who plops down beside him, and suddenly the bed feels much smaller than he thought it would be for the two of them. Scott settles on the pillow and their faces end up only inches apart. 

All of a sudden it's eerily silent for a roadside hotel room, not even muffled sounds of distant car engines disturb the stillness of the midnight air as only streetlights bear witness to their wordless pillow talk and create strange shadows on Scott's face. Mike feels like he's suspended in time, mentally still clinging on to chilly nights of the city, when Scott's warmth was the only constant to grant him solace. At the thought his fingers seem to find their way to Scott's half-damp hair on their own. Mike tucks a dark lock behind his ear, and then his hand travels down to Scott's stubbled jaw in almost rehearsed familiarity. The primordial ache behind Mike's eyes seems to slowly dissipate at the contact, even if for a little while. Only when Scott's warm fingers lace together with his own he realizes how cold his hands have grown. He finds it to be enough of an invitation to be held by Scott like he was a million times before, but he's not sure he’s up for the gamble just yet. It's jarring, all of this. A few hours ago he was splayed on a highway, deserted, robbed and alone, waiting for the bottomless abyss to consume him completely. Now his fingers tingle under Scott's delicate yet sure touch, the good kind of tingle. For a fleeting moment it feels as if both of their pasts can't follow them into this makeshift safe haven, and it's exhilarating.

"Let's go get you some shoes tomorrow, yeah?" Scott says in a half-whisper, smiling quietly.

Mike returns the smile as he traces slow circles on Scott's cheek. "Yeah."

Tomorrow. The word would always wake a hazy sense of unease in the pit of his stomach as he would be forced to ruminate about how the world inevitably passes him by and all he can really do is sit and watch, struggling to exist in his own body. Misplaced and disoriented, forever the observer of his own vicious cycle of liminality. But Scott's gaze is unwavering, eyes warm with the promise of a tomorrow by his side and Mike feels seen and existent.

Scott's steady breathing lulls him to sleep that for once he agrees to. He dreams in orange and violet and glistening black.


End file.
